Dethroned
by lemonpiefirefly
Summary: Molly is the Queen of her morgue. Usually. Spoiler for "A Study in Pink" from series 1. Thanks to jackwabbit for an end-saving beta, and title assistance. For captain, who continues to Enable.


Title: Dethroned

Rating: K+

Summary: Molly is the Queen of the morgue. Usually.

Universe: "Sherlock" BBC series 1, which I love and own on DVD, but that is the extent of my legal claim. More's the pity.

Spoilers: "A Study in Pink". Quoted dialogue is by Steven Moffat, from the episode.

Word count: ~875

A hearty thanks to jackwabbit for beta; you all will reap the benefits of a much smoother ending after her efforts. And a title. And always, cap, for fandom et al.

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><p>"H'okay."<p>

That one, tiny word. She tended to say it when she felt small. Nervous. Insignificant.

It usually came out, no matter the situation, in a strained, breathy squeak. Her mother once told her that it made her sound "mousey", which was one of her least favourite descriptors. She couldn't deny she had a habit of fading into the background rather readily. But that was the past. Or at least, the outside.

Here, she was the master. This was her demesne, where she ruled supreme. There was no one to challenge her. In point of fact, no one alive at all.

It was a monarchy by default, but her monarchy all the same.

Then there was **him**. He was strange, not good at relating to others – and that was utterly relatable for her. But the man himself was not. He was a whirling dervish. He was a full palette of colour, alabaster though his complexion was.

He strode in, and the air utterly crackled with power and motion and **life**.

She didn't bother with pleasantries yet. In this stage of problem-solving, he had an utter single-mindedness for his work. She made herself limit the interaction to just providing him information, for now.

She stood by the window and watched as the whip-thin man went into a desperate flurry of action, unleashing a terrible burst of energy in flogging her former co-worker's corpse; his latest experiment. She felt a brief flash of concern for her judgement in choosing this man to be drawn to, but there was no helping it. The chaos that surrounded him was intoxicating.

As he finished, she strode in, monarch to visiting royalty, to extend all the courtesies of her little kingdom. She'd even added a little colour to turn this a bit more formal. He'd certainly notice the gesture; maybe he'd even appreciate the extra effort.

She took a second to check her resolve. Good. She felt good about this. He was here in her realm. She shouldn't need to find the courage. A ruler had every right to be bold and invite someone to a state function. Here, she could be courteous, a little witty, and quite accommodating.

"So, bad day was it?" Nice and relaxed, a little joke. _Starting off well, _she mused.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

_Right. Time to extend the invitation_. "Listen, I was wondering maybe later, when you're finished-"

His piercing, analytical gaze swiveled up and locked on her. She felt the tide of her resolve instantly ebb under the gravity of that stare. _It isn't fair! That shouldn't work __**here**_, she protested from her very core. He shouldn't be able to pierce her self-esteem in her own morgue. This, her own Royal Court, was the one place where "being comfortable in her own skin" wasn't a façade.

He'd cut her off in mid-sentence. "Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before -"

She began to lose her nerve. _Steady on, Molly_, she thought_._ "I uh, I - refreshed it a bit."

He slowly looked back at his notes, suspicion writ large on his face, with an air of distracted superiority. "Sorry, you were saying?"

_He is in __**your**__ world. You can do this._ "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

There. Not a question, a statement. It effectively asked for an answer, but it sounded infinitely more solid than a true question. She'd fixed him with a level, unblinking, and very interested gaze while she said it, too. _A proper grown-up interaction, that_.

He flicked her the thinnest of quick glances. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs."

Then he swirled off, and took the air in the room with him.

And there she stood, stunned and a little unsure what just happened and where it had all gone absolutely pear-shaped. He had noticed the gesture she'd made to mark this as special; sprucing herself up for him. Of course he'd noticed. It's what he **does**. But there it lay. Point completely missed. He saw the lipstick, but he didn't see her behind the dusky pink addition at all. He didn't see that in this ward, she was Important. That she was the Sovereign.

No. She'd just tried to deal as equals, and invite him out.

In return, she'd just been given a bloody coffee order.

She simply could **not** believe he had misunderstood her to have extended an actual offer to fetch him coffee - rather than an invitation out with her - from that exchange. Since when did he favour surface statement over inferred nuance? He must be acting intentionally thick-headed. Even **he** couldn't be that obtuse about social graces, could he?

So, it must be her, then. She really didn't rate at all, in his eyes. She wanted to brush off the affront and stand tall. After all, this was her land; her domain. She shuffled her feet a little as she felt the stunned not-smile of embarrassment, frozen on her face. She felt her resolve fail.

She felt like she was shrinking. She hated herself a little bit as the classic response left her mouth, but there it was all the same.

"H'okay."


End file.
